


Toy Story

by msred



Series: Lessons [4]
Category: American (US) Actor RPF, Marvel Cinematic Universe RPF, Real Person Fiction
Genre: Discovery, Established Relationship, F/M, Long-Distance Relationship, Smut, Watching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-05
Updated: 2021-02-05
Packaged: 2021-03-16 23:20:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29215569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/msred/pseuds/msred
Summary: She stops short when she steps into the room, all breath leaving her body. For that matter, she feels like her soul might have left her body. “I … What are you …” her heart beats too quickly and she can’t get out the words. “Where did you find that?” she finally manages.
Relationships: Chris Evans (Actor) & Original Female Character(s), Chris Evans (Actor)/Original Female Character(s)
Series: Lessons [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2019040
Comments: 14
Kudos: 28





	Toy Story

**Author's Note:**

> So. I know I've said this about a few of my smutty stories, but I'm definitely a bit out of my comfort zone in this one, going out on a limb here for sure. ... Seriously, I take NO responsibility for awkward moments or embarrassment if you read this at work, on public transit (if that's even possible where you are right now), or in mixed company. 
> 
> And my standard smut disclaimer - if that's not your thing, no worries, I totally understand, no hard feelings. Just turn back now.

**_September, 2019_ **

“Hey Chris,” she calls, heading down the hall toward her bedroom, “I was gonna make salads for lunch with that leftover chicken from last night. How do you feel about nuts and cranberries in -” she stops short when she steps into the room, all breath leaving her body. For that matter, she feels like her _soul_ might have left her body. “I … What are you …” her heart beats too quickly and she can’t get out the words. “Where did you find that?” she finally manages. Chris is sitting on the edge of the bed - _her_ side of the bed - the small top drawer of the nightstand open and her favorite adult toy in his hands. As he looks down at it she feels like it’s staring up at her, mocking her with all its turquoise silicone, vaguely phallic-shaped, obviousness.

Chris doesn’t look up at her and _fuck,_ that’s not good, right? She knows he’s not a prude. Boy does she. They’ve only been sexually active together for a couple months, just since the middle of the summer, and while they’ve never done anything _too_ crazy, it’s not like they stick to missionary. And during their longest stretch of time apart since they started sleeping together, they’d had phone sex a couple times. But she’d only used her hand those times, and he wouldn’t be the first partner she’d had who was turned off, even threatened, by her use of, well, _erotic aides_ , let’s call them. He holds the toy by one end (the end she’d had buried inside herself a week or so ago, a couple days before he’d arrived, she realizes, and she thinks the flush and heat consuming her body actually grow more intense) and with the other hand he reaches for something she can’t see beside his hip, just below her pillow. When his hand comes back up, there’s a small pink envelope tucked between his middle and index fingers. “I was gonna leave this in your nightstand. I thought it might be nice for you to find once I’m gone.” He finally looks up then, and he doesn’t look angry or disgusted, or anything like that. If anything, he looks smug, a cocky smirk taking over his features. “But I see you’ve already got provisions for once I’m gone.”

Her hands fly up to cover her face. “Oh god, this is not happening.” It’s not that she’s ashamed. Like she’d mostly jokingly told him after the first time they’d slept together, she’s a modern woman with needs and desires that she owns. She doesn’t believe there’s anything wrong with bringing herself pleasure, or safely using toys designed specifically for that purpose. It’s just that she didn’t expect to be talking about it so directly, so explicitly, this early in the relationship, and she certainly hadn’t expected it to happen this way, completely out of her control. As much as she’s not ashamed, she can’t say she doesn’t feel some - or a lot of - embarrassment at this moment.

Chris drops the envelope into the drawer like he’d apparently intended to do in the first place and closes the drawer slowly. He brings that hand back to the vibrator and turns the delicate wand over in his hands. “It’s … smaller than I would have expected.” Well, it’s smaller than _him,_ if that’s what he means. This isn’t the type of toy that works based on its bulk. This one is more about finesse.

Her heart rate is starting to return to its normal pace and she doesn’t feel like she’s actively sweating anymore, so she takes a couple steps farther into the room, toward him. “Okay, here’s the thing,” he looks back up at her, “I was single for a long time before we met. And we spend a lot of time apart.”

He doesn’t want her to explain, doesn’t think she _needs_ to explain. He’s more than okay with this, and she should know that. In fact, the only thing he does want, if she’ll let him, is to be a part of it. He smiles at her softly, hoping to put her a little more at ease, and tells her, turning the vibrator over in his hands again, “I can’t figure out how to turn it on.”

It doesn’t seem to have the desired effect, because she brings her hands up to curl around the sides of her neck and pleads, “God, Chris, just put it away, please?”

He smirks, his voice a little snarky in that way they both have, when he says, “So, is this like, _just_ a solo thing, or can I be involved too?” But she still doesn’t react the way he’d hoped she would, doesn’t seem to get that he’s all for her having a toy, taking care of her needs, that he _means_ it when he says he’d like to be involved, if that’s okay with her. Because the way she squeezes her eyes shut and actually whimpers tells him that she thinks he’s teasing her, fucking with her (not in the good way), or worse yet, actually making fun of her. He sets the toy gingerly on the mattress next to his left leg and says, quietly, as gently as he can manage “Hey, c’mere.” He opens his legs a little and waits for her to come stand between them, taking her hands in his and rubbing his thumbs softly over her knuckles. “If this is something that’s super private to you,” he tugs lightly on her hands, encouraging her to look him in the eye, “even where I’m concerned, fine. I’ll respect that and we’ll put it away and never talk about it again.” She nods and smiles softly and he takes that as a good sign. 

_“But,”_ he pulls on her hands a little harder, pulling her toward his lap; he can’t help but wonder if the fact that she sits on his right leg, the one opposite where he’d lain the toy on the bed, is intentional, “if you’re just embarrassed, trust me,” he takes her left hand, still nestled in his right, and brings it to rest on his erection, “you don’t need to be.” He moves his hand to rest on the small of her back but she keeps hers where it is, curls it around him a little over his jeans, like she’s exploring, testing things out. “I’ve had dozens of images fly through my mind over the last couple minutes, and every single one of them is fuckin’ amazing and ends with me trying to give that thing a run for its money.” He presses his forehead to her temple and goes on, his voice low, “After driving you crazy with it. Or watching you drive yourself crazy with it, I’m not picky.” He kisses right in front of her ear and lingers there.

She squeezes her hand around him a little and he moans under his breath. “I … you do understand that it’s a substitute, right, not a replacement? I’d _rather_ have you.” Sure, she knows how to take care of herself, and would rather do that than be with a man she’s not actually interested in just for the sake of not being alone, but that’s not the case, with him. Now that he’s in her life, now that he’s been in _her_ , the wand at his side feels a little less magic. 

He just laughs as he pulls back. “Baby, I don’t care if it’s a substitute, a replacement, or a supplement,” he wiggles his eyebrows at her and she rolls her eyes, but it’s good-natured, at this point, “and I don’t care how many battery-powered boyfriends you have or how you use them, as long as you and I are the only living, breathing humans getting you off.”

Well, _obviously_. She studies his face for a minute, one last attempt to make sure she’s not wrong about the way she’s reading this, that he’s really as comfortable with it as he’s trying to convince her that he is. She doesn’t think he’d lie to her, not on purpose anyway, but as she’d thought when she first came into the room and saw him sitting there with the vibrator in his hands, it’s not like he’d be the first man to have a problem with it. 

Honestly, though, what he’d said about it being something he’s involved in too, about him using it on her? The thought excites her more than she can express, more than she’d thought possible. And looking at him now, his eyes wide and clear and hopeful, _feeling_ him now, hard under her palm, yeah, this is something she’d like to explore.

She doesn’t take her left hand off him, actually moves her fingers over him in small circles, because it’s just more fun that way, but she shifts a little to lean across him and pick up the toy with her right, curling her hand around it and poising her thumb over the power button. She brings it back in front of both of them, at about chest level, and presses and holds the discreet button on the end until it buzzes once then stops, then she presses it again so that the toy comes to life and stays on.

“Oh,” he looks at it like he’s studying then lifts his left hand from where it had been resting on her knee and looks at her questioningly. She nods and he takes the toy from her hand. “ _Oh_ ,” he says again, more emphatically, “that’s … _a lot_. Is it not too much? It doesn’t hurt?”

She laughs quietly, careful to make sure it doesn’t sound like she’s laughing _at_ him. It’s a fair question, considering how many times she’s instructed him to touch her a little more softly, use a little less pressure. (And that’s not a complaint; true to form, he takes direction just as well in the bedroom as he does on a film set, seems to crave it, actually, to love it when she tells him what she wants or needs.) “That’s the lowest setting.”

His eyebrows climb up his forehead as he tilts his head down a little to look up at her, “There’s more than one?”

She nods. “Ten.” His eyes grow impossibly wider as he mouths the word after she says it. “The first three just get progressively stronger, then after that it alternates between different speeds and rhythms.”

“Jesus,” Chris mutters under his breath as he looks back down at it. It’s not like this is the first time he’s seen or even touched a vibrator. He’d known _exactly_ what he was looking at when he opened her nightstand drawer and it rolled forward. But it’s been a long time since he’s been in an actual relationship, since he’s had a partner who he had enough of a connection with that she was comfortable letting him into this part of her sexual life. Either everything he’d see before now had been very basic, very simple, or things have changed since the last time he saw one of these in action. He’s guessing it’s the latter, because this one looks pretty basic itself, 10 different settings notwithstanding. Anyway, that’s not the point at the moment, so he takes his eyes off the toy still buzzing in his hand and brings them back to her face, which no longer looks nervous or embarrassed, just open. He keeps his eyes on hers and moves slowly, so that she has ample opportunity to stop him at any time, lowering his hand - and the toy - to the inside of one of her legs, just above her knee. 

When it touches her skin, several inches below the hem of her shorts, her hand tightens on him over his jeans. He grins and leans forward to kiss her and her free hand comes up to his jaw as she kisses him back as he moves the toy carefully up the inside of her leg. Until he reaches the bottom of her shorts and starts to work the toy under the fabric, that is. Then, though she doesn’t stop kissing him, she lowers her hand to wrap it around his wrist, to stop his movement. He pulls back, his eyes darting between hers, to see if she’s upset. She’s not, he doesn’t think so, anyway, because she’s smiling back at him softly with that same look in her eye that she gets just before she straddles his lap in the middle of a movie or pulls him over her as they settle into bed together.

“You don’t just … jump right in,” she tells him gently, carefully, the way she always speaks to him when she’s telling him what she wants (at first anyway, it tends to get a bit more desperate as things go on). “I mean,” she shrugs and smirks, “maybe some people do. I don’t. The way I like you to touch me really softly, at first, sometimes?” He nods. “The same thing applies when I’m by myself.”

He wouldn’t have thought the images in his brain could get any better than they already were. He was wrong. He just stares at her for a second, and _yeah_ , he thinks, _we’re doing this_. He clears his throat, just a little, but it still comes out low and husky when he says, “Show me?”

She bites her lower lip, and he knows she’s in even before she nods. That doesn’t stop his stomach from flipping and his dick from twitching when she does. She scoots back, sliding off his leg. He moves farther down the mattress to make it easier for her to move her legs so that they’re behind him - well, beside him, as he turns to angle his body toward her - and when she reaches her right hand toward him he places the vibrator carefully in her palm. He watches her curl her hand around it and use her thumb to turn it off (this is valuable information, he knows) before she sets it on the bed next to her hip. She settles back against the pillows then lifts her hips, hooking her thumbs into the waistband of her linen shorts and her panties and starts to push them down her legs. When they get to her knees and she can’t go any farther without sitting up, he slides his hands over hers before tucking his fingers where her thumbs have been and takes over for her, pulling the garments down her calves and over her feet when she lifts them off the mattress.

She lays back against the pillows and he can’t help but ask, “D’you watch anything, to get in the mood?”

She shakes her head at his question. “No.” She understands why he’d ask, but that’s not her thing, generally. “Just kinda close my eyes and think. Imagine.”

“What do you think about?”

She feels the blush that starts at the center of her chest and spreads, down over her breasts, up her neck and onto her cheeks. “You.” Her eyes dart down to where her hands rest awkwardly on her hips.

He wraps his hand around her calf and squeezes gently. “You don’t have to say that,” he tells her, not going on until her eyes come up to meet his. “It’s okay, you can be honest. I promise I won’t be mad. I asked for this.” He tightens his grip again, just for a second.

“No,” she shakes her head and scoffs - at herself, not at him, “I mean it. I think about you. ”

“See, you say that,” he slides his hand up until his fingers curl behind her knee and his thumb traces circles over it, “but you’re blushing like you’re definitely hiding something.” He lowers his head a little to look up at her from under his brow.

She only sighs. “That’s because it’s embarrassing.”

He chuckles, just once, softly, careful not to upset or offend her. “How is it embarrassing that you think about your boyfriend when you’re getting yourself off?”

She chews at her lip and squeezes her eyes closed, asking for support from whoever may be listening. “Because it’s _been_ you. For a long time. Like, since before we met.”

“Oh.” He goes quiet, and he can practically feel her nervous energy, which he feels bad for, but he needs a second. She’s not the first woman to tell him that same thing, in so many words. (Hell, men too, for that matter.) When he was younger, a stupid kid in his 20s, it had flattered him, even excited him. It’d been a nice stroke to his ego and he’d used it to his advantage more than once. As he’s gotten older it’s started to embarrass him, even make him uncomfortable, sometimes, when he sees some of the more _descriptive_ stuff on Twitter. But he’s never felt like this about anyone who’s ever said that to him, and that, he's finding, makes a huge difference, because the idea of her thinking about him as she brings herself to orgasm, whether it was a week ago or a year ago, works for him, does things to him. 

“Well, still, please don’t be embarrassed. As you already know,” he lifts his hand, which had been rubbing soothingly, he hopes, over her leg, and brings it to adjust himself where his jeans have grown uncomfortably tight, “I have nothing but positive thoughts about this. So no more talk about being embarrassed, yeah?” He looks at her pointedly until she nods. “I really just wanna see you do your thing. So just, pretend I’m not here. Or don’t. Whatever works better. I’m whatever you need me to be right now.”

She laughs a little at that. “I don’t think I can pretend you’re not here. Or that I would want to.”

He tries, unsuccessfully, not to smirk. “Good to know.” 

She just looks at him for a second, a little awkwardly, then finally she nods and closes her eyes, gets a little more comfortable against the pillows. She slips her left hand under her shirt and starts to trace the outline of her bra with her fingertips. Her right hand moves from her hip across her lower abdomen then down, until her middle finger finds the top of her slit. Her hand moves down, no pressure, not pushing between her folds, just fingertips barely skimming over sensitive skin.

Chris manages to hold back a moan, just barely. “ _God,_ baby,” he grounds out, and he sees her hand twitch where she touches herself. “Shit. Is it okay if I talk?”

She nods quickly, emphatically, “I’d like that, actually. Love your voice, think about it a lot when I’m doing this.” She doesn’t open her eyes, because she knows if she sees him she’ll abandon what they’re doing and climb into his lap, slide her hand into his pants, and while that would be fun, it won’t be this, and he wants _this_. She does too, she thinks to herself. But even with her eyes closed, she can’t miss the groan he lets out, and she goes on. “Sometimes I pull up one of your movies, or an interview, let it play on my phone in the background just to hear your voice.”

“Holy fuck.” It sounds like he’s speaking through gritted teeth. “What else do you think about?”

She smiles - for herself, because that’s what she feels, not because she thinks it’s what he wants - and starts to touch herself with a little more purpose, a little more pressure, her finger just dipping between her folds to gather the wetness growing there. “Your arms. Your chest. Your upper back, the way the muscles there just _scream_ power, even when you’re not really doing anything to use them. The rock climbing photo shoot,” she arches her back as her now-wet fingers circle her clit, her hips writhing a little on the mattress, “ _fuck_.” Her breath leaves her in a heavy gasp. “That one kills me.”

Chris’s dick is so hard it’s damn near painful, and yet he barely even notices. Ninety-eight percent of his attention, his energy, is all focused on her, what she’s saying about him, the way her hands move over her own body. “Like knowin’ I can both take care of you,” he asks, his voice almost strangled, “hold you safe and secure, _and_ throw you around a little?”

She nods and his hand fists around the comforter between her knees as she goes on, hesitant to touch her, to maybe interrupt, and also unwilling to move any farther away. “Some things that,” she moans quietly as her fingers press harder, more insistently, against her clit then slide between her lips, down to her entrance and back up again, “some things that surprised me, too. Your tattoos. Never had a problem with tattoos, of course,” she arches her back again and his eyes flit to one of her own tattoos, just peeking out from under her shirt, “always liked and appreciated them as a form of personal art, but they never _did_ anything for me either. Until I saw yours, the quote on your collarbone.” A strangled little whimper escapes her. “That was the first tattoo that ever made me _feel_ something. And not even just when you’re shirtless, but the way it peeks out sometimes, like a tease. Just wanted to run my tongue over it.”

“God, baby, love it when you do that.” Even now he can practically feel her tongue on him, how attentive, how reverent she always is. His head falls forward and he sinks a little into the mattress, all his weight supported by that one hand between her legs on the bed, the other hand running restlessly up and down his thigh, the denim rough under his palm.

She goes on, appreciative of his words, always, thrilled to hear his voice, but too far in to be deterred or distracted. “Never liked chest hair, either. Then I saw that picture in a magazine, you’re in a pool, dripping wet, and my eyes just always go straight to your chest and follow that line of dark, wet hair, all the way down.” The hand under her shirt, the one that’s tugged aside one cup of her bra to play with her own chest, stops massaging her breast to slide down her stomach, on its way to slip out of her shirt and reach for him, to run her fingers through that hair. She stops herself - that’s not what they’re doing, right now - and slides her hand back up to flick her thumb over the nipple a couple times before pulling at it. 

He hums, his eyes moving up to track the movement of her hand under her shirt, his mind conjuring the image of what it must look like under there, her thin, nimble fingers plucking at her own hardened, pink nipples. He shifts a little and he can feel the sticky wetness on the inside of his boxer briefs where his dick has started to weep precum. “You think about my dick, then? And when you’re doing this?” She just shakes her head, eyes still closed, one hand still moving under her shirt while the other has started to trace tight figure eights around her clit then down and around her entrance. “No?”

It takes her a second to answer, because she’s more focused on what her hands are doing, the right one in particular. He watches, rapt, as her middle finger slips inside, just barely, just to the very first knuckle, then out again to draw another circle before doing the same thing again. During the third go, she answers him. “I mean, I had never seen it, before _us_ , for one thing.” Her breath stutters as she pushes her finger in farther. “So I wouldn’t have known what to picture.” Back out, then back in, farther still. “And it just doesn’t really do anything for me.” Her hand freezes up for a second, middle finger buried inside herself, then pulls out quickly to drop onto her hip. “I mean, shit,” she shakes her head, frustrated, and her left hand goes still as well. 

“It’s okay baby, don’t stop,” he coos. “‘M not offended.” _Just please, please don’t stop doing what you were doing_. The toy hasn’t even come into play yet and he feels like he’s going to explode. He’s desperate, at this point, to see this play out.

“It’s just, I mean,” her left hand moves first, thumb drawing circles around her nipple, then her right slides back down to begin working over herself again, “I appreciate it, for what it _does_ do for me, the way it feels when you’re inside me,” she skips the teasing, pressing her middle and ring fingers quickly inside and he lets out a garbled, almost strangled-sounding groan, his fingers digging into the muscles of his thigh so tightly it actually hurts when she starts to pump hers quickly and rhythmically in and out, “but the way it looks, the way any of them look, it’s just, there are so many other things about you that do more for me, visually.”

She must look obscene, she knows, her fingers practically dripping as she pulls them from her body. She’d closed her eyes initially because she was worried she’d get embarrassed, watching him watch her, and because it’s what she normally did when she was alone with only her thoughts of him. She keeps them closed because if she looks at him, she’s going to beg him to fuck her. And he’ll oblige, happily, if the sounds he keeps making and the way his voice is a little more strangled every time he speaks are any indication. And it will be good, better than good, no doubt. But then she won’t have accomplished what she set out to do.

Chris wants to scream when she slides her fingers out of herself completely, to yell and cry and beg her to put them back, make her understand he’s never seen anything so goddamn incredible in his life. But then her hand starts fumbling around beside her on the mattress, middle two fingers held up high to avoid making a mess on the comforter, he thinks. He picks up the vibrator, holds the button on the end then presses it again to turn it on, like he’d watched her do, and presses it into her palm. She smiles as she wraps her hand around it and he feels stupidly proud of being able to help her out. 

He keeps his eyes on the toy as she starts at her belly button then moves it slowly downward, squirming when she hits the top of her slit then her clit. She holds it vertically against herself, nestled between her lips as she moves it all the way down until it vibrates against her entrance. She twists it a little as she drags it back up and he can see her wetness glistening on the soft silicone. God, this is - he doesn’t have words. And, he realizes, for the past couple minutes, neither has she. He misses it, hearing her talk about what turns her on about him. Sure, it doesn’t hurt his ego, but more importantly, it gives him valuable information to file away for later.

“What else?” he asks to get her talking again. And, unable to help himself any longer, he lets go of the comforter and brings his fingertips to the inside of her leg, a few inches below her knee. He trails them slowly up her leg several inches then stops and goes back the way he’d just come. “Is this allowed?”

She nods, biting her lower lip and trying not to whine out loud. The feeling of one of her own hands massaging her breast, pinching and plucking at the nipple, while the other moves a toy over her most sensitive parts, isn’t anything new. His hand on her leg as she does it is something she’s never felt before, though, and she feels like she might burst into flame from the overload of it all. And talking to him the whole time, yeah, she’d been embarrassed, at first, for him to know the ways she thought about him, the ways she had for much longer than they’d actually been _them_ , but the more she does it, the more she loves it, feels emboldened, empowered, by it. “My favorite things,” she stops, unable to speak as she changes the angle of the toy to slide it into herself, her breath hitching even more when his hand stops momentarily on her leg and his nails dig into her skin, “are … they might surprise you.”

He curls his hand under her leg, rubs his thumb in slow circles over the soft skin of her inner thigh, and leans down until he can press his lips to her arm, just below the slope of her shoulder where her fluttery little sleeve stops. “Why?” he asks against her skin before sitting back up.

She sighs first, long and breathy and high-pitched, her left hand sliding down her torso and out from under her shirt to take hold of the vibrator so that her right can move up, fingers dancing over her clit. “This one is kinda weird, I know, but the few random gray hairs that show up in your beard sometimes. I don’t know why.” She pushes the vibrator into her body and pulls it back out, her hips writhing on the bed as she twists it when it’s all the way inside her. “Just shows growth and maturity and a life lived. Like you know what you want and what you’re doing.” Her left hand keeps working the vibrator, pushing it in, twisting it, changing the angle, then pulling it back out. Her right leaves her clit though, and pushes down the inside of her leg until it’s grabbing at his wrist and pulling his hand up to where hers had been. 

He moans when his fingers slip through the wetness between her lips on their way to her clit, and he wastes no time getting to work, moving over her in small, quick circles but without too much pressure, the way she’s taught him she likes. Her hand rests low on her stomach and the way her head rolls on her pillow, eyes squeezed tight and mouth open in a silent scream, is almost too much for him to take. She whimpers before she goes on. “And your mouth, your lips. But more specifically your smile.” She can’t see it, but he smiles then, a little wickedly, at the idea that comes into his head. Moving carefully so as not to disturb what his fingers are doing on her clit, he angles his upper body toward her just a little more and reaches for her free hand with his. He brings her hand to his mouth, letting her trace his smile with her fingertips. “You have the best smile. Warm and kind and full of joy.” He kisses the tips of her fingers then holds her hand still and sticks out his tongue, licking from the base of her middle finger all the way to the tip before taking both of the fingers that she’d had inside herself into his mouth and licking them clean. She lets out a sound that starts as a startled gasp and ends almost as a sob.

“Is that it? All of what you think about?” he asks when he’s satisfied he’s gotten it all, his lips brushing across her palm as he lets her move her hand to curl around his jaw. She shakes her head frantically as her hips start to move more forcefully, pushing up against his fingers, drawing the toy deeper inside herself.

“My favorite …” her voice trails off, her eyes squeezing tighter and her neck straining, “my favorite …” she loses her voice again, starting to work the toy in and out of herself faster, her hips rocking in time with her hand. He keeps pace, moving his middle finger quickly back and forth across her clit, the side-to-side motion a contrast to the up and down of her hips. “My favorite is your eyes. Always had a thing for blue eyes, and yours are gorgeous … ” another stuttering gasp, a slight increase of pressure from his finger, “and with your dark hair …” her back arches, only her ass and her shoulders touching the mattress, her head pressing into the pillow, and her hand moves from his jaw to grip his wrist as his fingers work magic on her body. He wants so, so badly to kiss her, but then she would have to stop talking. And it’s not that he wants to hear her talk more than he wants to kiss her, exactly, but he doesn’t know when he’s going to have the chance for _this_ again, and he doesn’t want to interrupt, doesn’t want to miss a second.

“And when I’m doing this,” she’s panting now, and it’s getting a little more difficult to move the toy inside herself as she tightens around it, “with my eyes closed and picturing your eyes and your voice playing somewhere in the background, it was the closest I ever thought I’d get to having you right here on top of me.” He knows those sounds, those heavy breaths and keening whimpers, knows those microexpressions, knows they’re the ones she makes when she’s teetering on the edge, just before she loses control and her walls clench and flutter around him. He uses his free hand to brush her hair back off her forehead, leans down carefully to kiss her forehead, her temple, the hair a little damp with sweat from her arousal, whispers in her ear, equal parts encouraging and dirty.

He feels her arch again off the bed, her body going taut and rigid, and he sits back up to watch as she lets out a scream, holds the toy still deep inside herself, digs her fingers into his forearm. He keeps his fingers moving over her until he can see her muscles release one by one, then his hand stills, his fingers resting lightly along her slit and her lips and his thumb rubbing softly along the seam of her thigh and hip. She turns the toy off and pulls it from her body and he takes it from her with the hand that isn’t still on her body; he doesn’t know where to put it - he thinks that on the comforter isn’t the best place, but he doesn’t know if she’d want it on the nightstand or the floor - so he just holds it, his arm hanging down to his side. His breathing is almost as stilted as hers, his heart pounding, his dick so hard in his pants that now that he no longer has the glorious distraction of her impending orgasm to focus on he can’t help but notice that he’s on the verge of actual pain. _Totally worth it._

“Oh. My. God. Chris,” she manages to say, drawing in a deep breath after each word and letting her arms fall limply to her sides. She opens her eyes and blinks a couple times until they focus on his face. A lazy, content smile spreads across her lips. “Fuck.”

He just stares down at her, his jaw a little slack and his eyes glassy. “That was …” he shakes his head, “I don’t even … “ he trails off again and she smiles as she brings a hand up to trail her fingers over his forearm. “Jesus, baby, that was the best thing I’ve ever seen. Ever.”

She grins a little wider. “I think I may be ruined for all future solo sex now.” She giggles and pushes herself up so that she’s sitting, facing him with her legs still stretched long in front of her, letting them splay a little to the sides. He moves his hand to curl around the inside of the thigh closer to him, tucking his fingers under her leg, and she rests her own free hand on his knee and starts to move it slowly up his leg. “But for now, it’s your turn.”

“I’m okay,” he lies, “you don’t have to -”

He chokes on his words when she cups him through his jeans, squeezing lightly. “Seriously?”

Well, _obviously_ he’s not actually ‘okay.’ He could fucking hammer nails right now, and if she takes him up on his offer to stop here he’s going to have to spend a couple minutes in the bathroom (because yeah, it won’t take longer than that, as worked up as he is right now). But the point of this was for her to get off, for her to show him how she gets herself off, to tell him her fantasies as she did. He’s not going to pressure her now to make it about him. “I mean -”

“No chance in hell, mister.” She’s quick, and nimble, and before he even realizes what she’s doing she’s popped the button on his jeans and is slipping those nimble fingers under the waistband of his boxer briefs. He hisses as her hand wraps around him, her thumb drawing circles over the head of his cock. She leans forward to kiss him and takes advantage of the fact that his mouth is still open on a gasp, pressing her tongue past his lips. The kiss is hot, and desperate, and dirty, all tongues and teeth and broken moans, and his fingers dig into the soft skin of her thigh as she moves hers over him. After probably a minute, she pulls back. “Besides,” she says, breathing heavily as she presses their foreheads together, “as good as that was, you really think I can stop there with the real thing right here?” He looks over her face and she looks downright hungry. “Want you inside me.”

He growls deep in his throat and goes to lift his hand - the one that isn’t currently probably bruising her inner thigh, not that she’ll complain about that any more than the first time he’d left a hickey there (she doesn’t mind walking away from sex with him with a few marks, she’d promised, as long as those are the only kind of marks he ever puts on her, which is not something she _ever_ has to worry about, and as long as they aren’t where anyone else can see them, something he does sometimes have to remind himself to be more careful of) - to cradle the back of her head and keep her close, but as he does he’s reminded that that hand is also still occupied. He adjusts his grip on the vibrator so that his thumb hovers over the power button. “Can we keep the toy?”

He thinks his dick twitches in her hand when he sees the way her face lights up just before she says, “Fuck yes.”

**Author's Note:**

> This very well may get a second part, but for now it's marked as 'Complete' with one chapter because I'm not sure when that next chapter will come along and I don't want it to sit 'Incomplete' indefinitely when this part stands alone just fine.


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